A Look Back Year Three: Splitzville

It was hard to select a single episode from for this week's look back. Year Three began with a fellow called Giggles waltzing into the Iceberg for a job as interim bartender and we all still smirk at the response when Oswald asked his real name. That was the Hell Month when Bruce asked Selina to move into the manor, not even realizing he'd done it until a scary moment on that Cartier's rooftop. It was the year he discovered a certain cat figurine in the curio in his bedroom "To Candice, from BW." It was the year we first heard the DEMON Oath of Loyalty (in the long form, if you please) and witnessed the formal ceremony of Calling an Ubu. It was even when we found out the Ha-Hacienda SOP for a Bat-Encounter, beginning with the order to smile... politely. Then smile like you know something about Batman's sister...

But in the end, despite all this moments of purring purple cattitude, one chapter in one tale stood out.

Whiskers trotted across the Great Hall of Wayne Manor like a cat on a mission. He trotted up the grand staircase, down the hallway, and made a brisk turn into Selina’s suite.

ººFOUND IT!ºº he declared with such a gleam of feline triumph, Nutmeg actually lifted her head several centimeters from the cushion where she napped, and looked at him.

ººI found it!ºº the cat repeated, ººI found that cave smell!ºº

Nutmeg yawned.

ººThe cave smell,ºº Whiskers insisted, ººDamp. Clammy. Rock. When Bat-Bruce is Two-Foot in Boots.ºº

Nutmeg licked a paw, unable to share Whiskers’s enthusiasm for their new quarters. Most of the furniture had come with them to this new place, but not Selina-cat’s bed, and hence, not Nutmeg’s war room underneath Selina-cat’s bed. All of Nutmeg’s prized trophies: the plastic milk ring, the crunchy envelope, the paper ball, the pantyhose egg, had all been lost along with her special place for keeping them. Whiskers suffered a loss as well: his terrace and the prize spot behind the planter where he pretended to be the stalking jungle cat of death. But his special cushion was here, so he didn’t mind so much. Indeed, he seemed to look on the new place as a great adventure.

ººSo,ºº Nutmeg said finally, deciding to give Whiskers his moment of glory, ººyou found the smell?ºº

ººBehind the tick-tock. Tick-tock opens up into big dark. Damp. Clammy. Rock. Lots of mousy squeak-squeak noise.ºº

ººNot interested.ºº

ººHow can anyone not like mice?ºº he asked. Whiskers was a life-long enthusiast of the gentlemanly sport of mousing. He didn’t understand how anybody could not enjoy it.

ººWoof.ºº came the reply, the ultimate expression of feline disdain.

Whiskers shifted his back legs in a telltale signal that he was ready to pounce. Then he hopped up to the sofa, rolled Nutmeg onto her side and nipped at her ear while her paw swatted his muzzle. When the brief wrestle was over, Whiskers touched the tip of his nose to Nutmeg’s, just as two martial artists might bow after a match. Then he sat up.

ººIf you don’t explore,ºº he told her sternly, ººyou’ll never find a new territoire.ºº

ººI explore,ºº Nutmeg said proudly, ººI followed Standing Softpaws today.ºº

ººAeiou!ºº Whiskers exclaimed in delight.

Both cats were equally fascinated by the two-foot they called Standing Softpaws. He was almost catlike in his ability to appear from nowhere and stare—which he did a great deal in their first days here. It seemed that he was keeping an eye on them, which they found insulting. They were certain he was the keeper of their new living quarters, for he had a wonderfully feline way of moving about the rooms, putting every little thing in its proper place. Few two-foots were so precise about where objects belonged. If only he would get over this idea that they had some grudge against his breakables.

“Adorable creatures, Miss,” they had heard him saying, “but I do fear for the Meissen and the Ming.”

That led to outrageous suggestions that they be locked in Selina-cat’s suite. They overheard Bat-Bruce veto the idea:

“Alfred, I’ll admit I don’t know all there is to know about cat behavior. But I have learned one thing: If you let them know you don’t want them to go in a particular place, it absolutely guarantees that will become the mission of their lives.”

“Respectfully, sir, is it not possible you are letting your experiences with Miss Selina cloud your-”

“No, Alfred. It’s not.”

“I see, sir.”

“Selina says leave the door open, and once they see they can come and go freely, they’ll probably stay in there with their familiar things after the preliminary explorations.”

“Very good, sir.”

Both cats thought Bat-Bruce should be rewarded for such admirable behavior: Whiskers did so by rubbing his head into the pantleg, while Nutmeg determined to claim one of his socks just as soon as she found a new war room in which to keep it.

She also resolved to settle the matter of Standing Softpaws.

***

Nutmeg observed that Standing Softpaws had again appeared at the door to the room. He was, Nutmeg would have to admit, almost as silent as a cat. Neither Bat-Bruce nor Selina-cat were as quiet as they seemed to think. Like all two-foots, their ears were simply too far from the ground to be able to move with true stealth. But Standing Softpaws was the exception to the rule: here he was, staring at her, and Nutmeg had no idea how or when he arrived.

She stared back, politely.

And he walked away.

This struck her as unforgivably rude, even for a two-foot. She had interrupted her nap in order to return his stare, and he walked away. She decided right then that he should be taught a lesson. She would follow him to his own nap-place and look at him, see how he liked it!

She followed down the hall, down the stairs, and down another hallway. She followed through the bright room and the drafty room and the room with all the books. She stopped long enough to rub her scent into the doorway. She liked books, they had a warm, crisp smell and were fun to curl in when Selina-cat tried to read them. Then Nutmeg trotted faster to catch up with Standing Softpaws wherever he had gone to… she rounded the corner and… gaped.

It was the Land of the Can-Opener. It was the biggest, grandest, sparkling Land of the Can-Opener any cat had ever seen! And Standing Softpaws was its king???

Instantly, Nutmeg decided she had misjudged this wise and noble two-foot. She would find him and make amends at once.

***

Nutmeg was not actually able to locate Standing Softpaws to make her apologies until the harsh squeal led her to his location. She recognized the sound—it was a teakettle, and it meant there would be little plates with cake and sometimes sandwiches. She saw Standing Softpaws take just such a plate into a little pantry-like room off the kitchen. There he sat, in a hard-looking chair that offended Nutmeg’s feline sensibilities. Beside him was a little table. From her position on the floor, she could not see onto the table, but her nose told her the steaming hot tea was on there, which meant the cake would be too.

She walked up to Standing Softpaws and treated him to the “aren’t I precious” look.

“Good heavens, who let you in here?” was the less-than-welcoming greeting.

Nutmeg switched her posture from "aren’t I precious" to "what can you be doing over there that could possibly be more interesting than admiring me ?"

He appeared to ignore her, then glanced down twice as he sipped his tea. Nutmeg waited for the third glance, readying herself to perform the ultimate act of feline beguilement: the silent miaow.*

The moment came—Standing Softpaws reached for his tea, brought the cup to his lips, and glanced downward. Nutmeg opened her mouth as she would for a fully articulated meow, but emitted no sound. Standing Softpaws watched this, as all two-foots do, as if pondering what possible burden could so plague a little creature that she could not even give voice to it. He set down his cup, and bent to take Nutmeg into his lap.

“Now then, little fellow, it can’t be as bad as all that, can it? I suppose this house is rather large and daunting for someone like you to get used to.” He touched his fingertip to Nutmeg’s nose, which she permitted, as it seemed like a friendly gesture, and also because it smelled like tea. “But I assure you,” he went on, now stroking her fur as he spoke, “that you are not the first newcomer here, and, thus far, all new residents of Wayne Manor have made the adjustment.”

He gave her a morsel of cake and told her of Master Dick and Master Jason, and his efforts to make them welcome when they came to live here. They sounded, to Nutmeg, like two of the sorriest cats she ever heard tell of.

Read the complete tale now on the Cat-Tales website or mobile-friendlyCat-Tales.mobi

Chris Dee
www.catwoman-cattales.com
cattales.yuku.com
cattales.wikispaces.com

Thank you for reading. If you are viewing this post anywhere other than The Catitat you are reading a mirror. Please visit the original posting in The Catitat to leave a comment.

A Look Back Year Two: Something Old

Probably my favorite Book 2 Cat-Tale.  If you recall, due to some Alfred's machinations in a previous tale, Bruce was stuck hosting sessions for a food and wine festival at the manor.  Still learning about Selina's civilian side, he had some surprises at the first cocktail party.  Selina knew a great deal about wine, and one of the presenters turned out to be an old flame: the French aristocrat Count Francois de Poulignac.  Selina was so caught up in the reunion, she didn't even introduce Bruce, and in the only real hint of actual jealousy we saw in him, Bruce grumbled to himself that it might be because she didn't remember his name.  "What with it being so short and easy to pronounce and in only one language."

On with the fun: 

After Alfred’s literary hero, Jeeves, the most famous butler in fiction is probably Stevens in Remains of the Day.  Alfred remembered fondly that book’s account of an unflappable butler serving in India, who interrupts his master’s tea to report a rabid tiger has entered the house and rests beneath the dining room table.  The butler calmly asks permission to use a particular weapon, after which the guests hear three gunshots.  The butler returns to refresh the teapot and reports “Dinner will be served at the usual time, milord, and I am pleased to say there will be no discernable traces of the recent occurrence by that time.”

Perhaps it was the gift for dignified understatement that put Alfred more in mind of Stevens than Jeeves at this particular moment.  Or perhaps it was that Stevens’ duties brought him into contact with Nazis and Nazi collaborators, while the worst Jeeves had to contend with were chaps called Tuppy Glossop and Gussie Finknottle.  

“There is a matter in the library requiring your attention, sir,” Alfred announced soberly.  Bruce turned from his place where Signora Rinaldi was measuring counter space for a demonstration on olive pressing, and Alfred continued.  “Your immediate attention, sir.”

Assuming this was yet another of the endless preparations for the festival, Bruce entered the library with a distracted air, totally unprepared for the sight that would greet him.  The transition to Batman was instantaneous as his brain registered it - the Joker! - sitting in an easy chair - feet up on an endtable - balancing a leather-bound volume of Emily Dickenson poems on his chin.

“Brucie!  You’re not the one I wanted!  I knew that old fellow didn’t understand me.  Should I kill him for you before I go?  Listen, I’m looking for Selina, got a bit of a problem I want her to help with.  Have you heard that I’m dead?”

“Um, well,” Bruce stammered.

“Dead!  The papers all say that I’m dead!  Where would they get an idea like that?  Don’t I look the image of a happy healthy Joker?”

Before Bruce could answer, Joker picked up the book and sung a verse to the tune of Yellow Rose of Texas…

♫ Because I could not stop for Death,

♫ He kindly stopped for me.

♫ The carriage held but just ourselves

♫ And Immor-TA-LI-TY! ♫

Strangely, after a wildly atonal wail on the last word, the madman became completely lucid.

“So anyway, Bruce, you mind if I call you Bruce?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” was the cold reply.

“So anyway, Bruce, your li’l gal Selina’s the reigning queen of bitch-slapping these damn newspapers.  I’m sure she’ll know what to do about this.”

“Selina’s not here.”

“Oh.  That’s what the old guy said too.  Y’think, maybe, not kill him after all?   Well then, how ‘bout this, I’ll leave you my calling card…”

The phrase meant a gas bomb, a mortar shell, or at best a squirt of acid …except this time it only produced … a calling card.

“Now, this number is the Hacienda Central in the East Village.  Always try there first.  If there’s no answer, try this one—that’s out by the expressway, I don’t use it much, too noisy, but there’s a machine!  Leave a message and then if I don’t call back in 2 days, call this number and say ‘Blind bats bite blowfish’ and they’ll tell you where I am.  Got all that? Ta!”

And he was off.  Bruce looked down at the card: locations of two Haciendas, phone numbers, e-mail, pager, and a password for getting more information from an answering service. This was the motherlode! Absently, Bruce flipped the card over and read:  Harley’s Hyena Chow: take 10 lbs ground meat and 10 lbs cornmeal…

“Say, Brucie, one other thing…” 

Oh hell, Bruce thought, I knew that was too easy.  He’s back.  And now he makes the card explode.  

“…something’s been nagging at me since that Christmas party, maybe you can help me out with it.  I wasn’t there in the adorable flesh, you know, and it’s the funniest thing, nobody will tell me what happened.  Hatter and Scarecrow are a pair of old hens after most parties, but this time, nothing.”  He made a light “look, the coin is-a-gone” gesture, then took on a dangerous tone.  “You see my point, Brucie.  It’s suspicious.”

Brucie growled silently, but Joker continued undeterred.

“If they’re not saying anything, it means there’s something to
not say.  And the others, Roxy, Penguin, Two-Face, it’s almost like they’re avoiding me.”  

“Mm.  Imagine that.”

With any other obnoxious visitor, Bruce would have slid into fop mode and made some excuse about the event being planned: lots of details to see to, must run (Ta!) …but Batman would not relinquish even that much of the helm.  This was the Joker.  DefCon-2!  

“Avoiding me!  Why would they want to do that?  I’m such a warm and charming guy. And I’m such a fuzzybunny at parties.  So why won’t anybody talk to me?  I know why, oh yes I do.  It’s to do with Harley.  She’s boffing one of them, isn’t she?  You were there, Wayne, you can tell me…”

If it weren’t for the absolute certainty that it would be signing Edward Nigma’s death warrant, Bruce might have told him, if only to reinforce the new form of address.  If Joker had to call him something, he’d do almost anything to remove ‘Brucie’ from the list of possibilities.

“’Excusez-moi,”  François appeared in the doorway, evidently still hunting for that room in the manor with the perfect temperature differential for his wine seminars.  “I couldn’t help but overhear, and I must say you are looking at this all wrong.  I am the Comte de Poulignac.”  He offered his hand to the Joker, who regarded it with an air of puzzlement.  He looked to Bruce, who shrugged.  Joker carefully shook François’s hand, and the count continued…

“So your mistress has taken another lover, what of it?  They are like that,
les femmes.  So much passion and impulse, and so little thought.  It is very endearing, no?”

Joker again turned to Bruce, hoping for confirmation that this idea was as loony as he thought. 

“That make sense to you?” Joker whispered.

Bruce was forced to admit, it didn’t. 

“To object to your woman’s new lover, it is so unsophisticated,” the Frenchman continued, “so—what is the English word?
The black and white, big collars, and the hats with the buckle—pilgrim?  No,
puritan.  It is so puritan to make an issue of these things.”  

Joker gave François de Poulignac the same wary-but-friendly, mustn’t-spook-the-lunatic look the orderlies always gave him at Arkham.  He pulled Bruce aside.  

“Brucie, reality check:  I’m wearing a purple suit?”

Reluctantly, Bruce raised an eyebrow and gave a regretful half-nod.

“Green hair?” 

Another grudging nod.

“Kill people by the dozen.”

“Yep.”

“And the cheese-eating surrender monkey just called me a puritan.”

“Yes.”

Joker turned his head, seeming to process this information. 

“Well that’s a first,” he remarked finally. 

Bruce was at a loss for words, but the Joker was unperturbed.  He looked back at François then back at Bruce.  “Cover me, I’m going in…” he confided, then turned his attention away from Bruce.

“So, Count,” Joker began in a firm I’m-not-the-crazy-one-here tone. “Let me get this straight.  Let’s say you have a girl.”

“Oui.”

“The doctors tell me it’s best in these hypothetical scenarios if you have a very definite image in mind.  So, some particular girl—say a blonde, petite, squirrelly laugh, lot of energy, and a luscious little tush.  With me so far?”

“Oui.”

“And you hear she’s screwing around.”

“Oui, but in France we would never say this ‘screwing,’ but I know what you say, she takes a lover.”

“Right.  And you’re not upset by this?”

“Mais pourquoi? But why? Any woman with spirit enough to be interesting is bound to want a hobby.”

Joker spun round to Bruce with a distinct “You heard that too?” then turned back to François as though to continue.  Then his head snapped up and he turned back to Bruce.  He suddenly realized there was a subtext to this discussion he’d completely overlooked:  Bruce Wayne was dating Selina Kyle, the Catwoman—and the whole world knew about her thing with Batman.  Oh shit, no wonder the guy looked like that.  Joker’s suspicions about Harley were just a theory, but Catwoman and Batman were common knowledge. 

Why, he and Wayne were brothers really, they were commiserating like brothers in arms whose women were stepping out with damnable faceless man-beasts, and this French pastry came in spewing nonsense that was painful to them both.

“This guy should die,” Joker said to no one in particular.

“A dilemma,” thought Bruce.

“No, wait, that’s too good for him,” Joker reconsidered.

“Dilemma solved—maybe,” thought Bruce.

Joker began pacing, trying to work out a fitting punishment.  From a crimefighting perspective, it was fascinating to watch as the clown paced, hummed a few bars of
Deutchland, Deutchland, paced some more, and snorted “Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!”

The psychopath was sufficiently absorbed in his ravings that Bruce was able to step nearer François and whisper, “You might want to leave now.”

Read the complete tale now on the Cat-Tales website or mobile-friendly Cat-Tales.mobi

Chris Dee
www.catwoman-cattales.com
cattales.yuku.com
cattales.wikispaces.com

Thank you for reading. If you are viewing this post anywhere other than The Catitat you are reading a mirror. Please visit the original posting in The Catitat to leave a comment.

A Look Back Year One: Fun and Games

As an anniversary treat, I'd like to revisit some special moments from each year of Cat-Tales.




Cat-Tales #7: Fun and Games

Bruce Wayne took a deep whiff of cognac and closed his eyes as the lone­ly tones of Schu­bert’s Im­promp­tu #90 waft­ed through the air.  Re­lax­ing in the sit­ting room ad­ja­cent to his bed­room, with a roar­ing fire, hand­made silk ki­mono, Wa­ter­ford snifter, and clas­si­cal mu­sic play­ing on the cost­ly ul­tra-​sleek stereo, he was the pic­ture of the bil­lion­aire bach­elor at home alone.

He didn’t hear the first dis­tant click, nor the sec­ond.  The third he at­tribut­ed to Al­fred, though it was more than an hour since the old man said he’d be re­tir­ing for the night.  The me­ow he couldn’t dis­miss so eas­ily and he rose to in­ves­ti­gate…

His eyes went square as he stood in the door­way to his bed­room, ob­serv­ing a dark sil­hou­ette flick­er be­fore the open safe.  Cat­wom­an? 

“Me­ow,” be­gan the in­trud­er, as an ap­prais­ing eye scanned him up and down.  “You’re a lot younger than the av­er­age fos­sil one finds home alone in these big hous­es.”

He was be­gin­ning to re­gret that sec­ond cognac; he need­ed a clear head… Bruce Wayne shouldn’t be too con­fi­dent or con­fronta­tion­al with this wom­an.  He had to find an­oth­er way.  As the fig­ure swayed en­tic­ing­ly in­to the light, he re­mem­bered he was a known wom­an­iz­er.  He al­lowed a fas­ci­nat­ed leer to over­take his fea­tures.   

“Can I, ah, help you with any­thing?” he man­aged as she touched a sin­gle claw to the cen­ter of his chest and stepped for­ward, back­ing him slow­ly but firm­ly in­to the sit­ting room and the chair he’d oc­cu­pied be­fore.  She stood over him now, twirling his great grand­moth­er’s ru­by neck­lace.  

“Not any more. I have what I came for… more or less.”  

She leaned over the chair, hov­er­ing tan­ta­liz­ing­ly above him, more de­lib­er­ate­ly volup­tuous than she ev­er was with Bat­man… Bruce felt his hand reach­ing round her waist and mov­ing gen­tly up her back as she con­tin­ued, “What’s a hand­some, rich, ath­let­ic guy like you do­ing all alone at mid­night any­way?”

As Cat­wom­an low­ered her mouth on­to his, he re­turned the kiss in­stinc­tive­ly; nev­er stop­ping to think of the times he’d kissed her as Bat­man… 

He didn’t see her hand move silent­ly to the pouch in her belt and fin­ger the bulb of knock­out gas… then pause and change course, com­ing to rest in­stead on the belt of his ki­mono and slash­ing it with a swift stroke of her claws.  

He didn’t hear the neck­lace hit the floor as she freed the oth­er hand to ex­plore his abs, chest, shoul­der and back.  

He did feel when her body tensed sud­den­ly, but she al­lowed him to twist her round and un­der­neath him, as he groped for the clasp that un­did her cos­tume.  

As the pur­ple leather fell away, Bruce broke the kiss fi­nal­ly to work down her neck and those lus­cious, ex­traor­di­nary… 

Their eyes met then, and he saw it.  

She knew….

… Or did she?

Im­pos­si­ble to tell and, at the mo­ment, im­pos­si­ble to care.  Af­ter all these years, af­ter all the teas­ing, af­ter all the games, he would fi­nal­ly have her.

*** *** ***

 

“Well, that was fun,” Seli­na purred.  “You got any oth­er fan­tasies you want to take out for a spin?”

Bruce Wayne, the char­ac­ter of the night be­fore, might have blushed or stam­mered.  The Bruce of this morn­ing stroked her leg as he whis­pered omi­nous­ly,  “You don’t think Bat­man’s go­ing to sim­ply ig­nore your break­ing in­to Wayne Manor, do you?”

She con­sid­ered this, then said, “But I didn’t leave with any­thing.  And I don’t think Bruce Wayne is go­ing to be press­ing charges for break­ing and en­ter­ing.”

“You can’t ex­act­ly tell Bat­man that part, can you?”

She raised an eye­brow.

“Bet me.”

Bruce couldn’t quite be­lieve how slow he’d been to take ad­van­tage of the sit­ua­tion—of ex­act­ly who his girl­friend was now.  Pro­to­cols!  He’d asked her about pro­to­cols, but nev­er so much as hint­ed—okay, the idea had tanked when he’d float­ed it past pre­vi­ous lovers; truth be told, that’s what re­al­ly broke up him and Sil­ver St. Cloud—but Seli­na was not Sil­ver.  She was Cat­wom­an.  She was re­al­ly Cat­wom­an.  She didn’t think hav­ing fan­tasies about cos­tumed night dwellers was re­mote­ly odd; she un­doubt­ed­ly had a few of her own.  She was down­right pleased to learn he thought about her that way, and she was ex­cit­ed (she was quite SPEC­TAC­ULAR­LY ex­cit­ed) to try out his Cat­wom­an-​break­ing-​in­to-​the-​manor sce­nario.

And he owed it all to Gio­van­ni D’An­nun­zio be­ing a snob, the Velk­stad Bal­let be­ing a bore, and the Jok­er be­ing in­sane.

*** *** ***

 

Read the complete tale now on the Cat-Tales website or mobile-friendly Cat-Tales.mobi

The Week in Cat-Tales

It was an amazing week kicking off the 10^th Anniversary of Cat-Tales. A book signing, Cat-Tales the Graphic Novel Prologue release in Second Life, Capes and Bats got a new cover, released its final heart-pounding installment, and became the first Cat-Tales spinoff to go out as an ebook and downloadable pdf. Selected spinoffs have also been added to the cat-tales.mobi site, and would you believe it, I even made some headway on Trophies… Whew, you’d think I’d be tired, but not even close.

It was wonderful meeting the new folks who made it into Second Life for the book signing at the Virtual Visitor Center. At the ribbon-cutting, I officially added the GN Prologue to the gift bags available there—drop in any time, there’s no need to wait for an event. For those unfamiliar with Second Life, books of this kind you can either display in world, like a coffee table book in your home, read and turn pages that way, or else attach to your HUD and read that way at any time. Anyone who visited on the 8th received an exclusive signed copy of the 10^th Anniversary Edition, and anyone who missed it—don’t worry, there will be more signings and more Cat-Tales releases in this popular SL-format.

There should also be more TIME at future signings for anyone who wants to tour the sim with me or get some help with their avatar and other aspects of the Second Life experience. I didn't have much time on the 8th because, frankly, I had no idea how many people would come. But from here on out, events will be much more laid back.

Capes and Bats… what can I say? If you haven’t read the final installment
Dark Knight Toccata yet, chills. It will give you chills. The faint of heart are advised to read before sundown, by the way. You also might want to make some garlic bread and have some holy water on hand, just in case.

So… what’s next? Tomorrow we’ll begin A Look Back. Revisit a favorite scene from each year of Cat-Tales. And Thursday another book signing for Cat-Tales #2: Normal.

Hm? I passed over Wednesday? Well, we’ll just have to see if something related to a giant penny might happen then.

Chris Dee
www.catwoman-cattales.com
cattales.yuku.com
cattales.wikispaces.com

Thank you for reading. If you are viewing this post anywhere other than The Catitat you are reading a mirror. Please visit the original posting in The Catitat to leave a comment.

10th Anniversary begins: Laissez le bon temps roule!

It's hard to believe it's been 10 years since Chapter 1 of Cat-Tales 1 was posted on the Internet.  It wasn't Cat-Tales #1 back then, it was just A Girl's Gotta Protect Her Reputation.  If I'd known it was a founding stone, I probably would have gone with a shorter, punchier title.  One without the word "Gotta." 

It is also Mardi Gras, and in that spirit I say Laissez le bon temps roule because today merely kicks off the Anniversary celebrations.  Nothing is confined to these 24 hours but the ribbon cutting.  There will be events and extras all year long.  Today's:

Chris Dee will be appearing at the Second Life Visitor's Center for book signings throughout the day.  Yes: BOOK SIGNINGS.  Today's offering is a 10th Anniversary edition of the Graphic Novel Prologue, exclusive to SL residents. 

Combining  "Mask for Mardi Gras" with another page of panels from the Graphic  Novel Prologue, this might be my favorite of the posters kicking off  Cat-Tales 10th Anniversary tomorrow.

10 Years of Cat-Tales

Here's another poster for the 10th Anniversary of Cat-Tales which is IMO another winner. Incorporating a few of Dorothy Rose's gorgeous panels from the Graphic Novel Prologue, it puts the focus squarely on Cat-Tale #1: A Girl's Gotta Protect Her Reputation rather than the series as a whole, which is certainly appropriate since the 8th is not just kicking off the year of anniversary celebrations, it is also celebrating the debut of that particular tale.

Mask for Mardi Gras

Mask for Mardi Gras - The first poster for the 10th Anniversary of Cat-Tales on March 8, which just happens to fall on Mardi Gras. Purple and masks! What a gift

Capes and Bats Long Video Trailer

Remember those Marvel "What If" Comics. Well...
What if Dracula came to Gotham?
What if he wants Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn and Catwoman for his brides?
What if... Vampire Joker